I am a writer. More precisely, I am a poet.
I always have been.
11-year-old me would stay up well past lights-out hiding under a blanket with a flashlight, paper, and pen to write. My friends were all reading Tiger Beat Magazine, the Babysitter’s Club series and anything by Judy Blume. I was reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I read Psalms and Proverbs. I loved Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge, and my favorite poem (still) – She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.
I even have a whole poetry book I self-published in 2006. It is absolute smut, but the rhyme schemes, the dactyls, the couplets, the iambs, and the enjambments are spot on.
Every rhyme scheme I studied, I tried. Except Haiku. That’s just silly.
But the poetry you see me post nowadays is few and far between. It is far less in volume than what I actually write.
Today I asked myself – why is this?
Why don’t I share?
Here’s why: because writing (especially poetic writing) is me at my most vulnerable. It is raw and an exact picture of what is happening in my heart. I’m afraid if you really saw my heart you might reject me.
I wrote the pieces for my book at the end of a year of death, divorce, and losing everything except my kids. And I mean everything.
The reason the poetry in my book is mostly smut is that I wrote angry and afraid and embarrassed and ashamed and vulnerable.
There’s that word again – vulnerable.
I just got to thinking about this today and about how I hide myself away, but hiding a talent is like hiding my little light under a bushel – NO! I’m gonna let it shine – even if the 3 of you are the only ones who ever read it. I’m tired of pretending and hiding my great big heart.